


Another Birthday, Another Game

by SingARoundelay



Category: The Boys in the Band (2020), The Boys in the Band - Crowley (Broadway 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Relationship(s), except for Harold, they all lived (almost) happily ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingARoundelay/pseuds/SingARoundelay
Summary: After Harold's disastrous birthday party, Michael has been sober for the last six month — all at Donald's insistence. But when it's Michael's birthday party... the gloves come off and more than a few secrets are revealed.
Relationships: Donald/Michael (Boys In The Band), Hank/Larry (Boys in the Band)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. The Set-Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Major](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Major/gifts).



This had disaster written all over it in at least seventeen different languages. Unfortunately for Donald, he only knew about four of those languages - so he didn't realize just how much of a shit show Michael's birthday party was going to be until it was too late. Hell, it was past too late and moving rapidly toward words like catastrophic or apocalyptic.

It was six months (to the day, ironically enough) since Michael had taken his last drink of booze — all at Donald's insistence, of course. Nine months since _that_ party, things had changed in tiny, imperceptible ways. At least, tiny to the outside observer. To Donald, who had realized three very unique fundamental truths in the moment he held Michael through his self-flagallating revelations, his entire world had shifted off its axis.

1\. Harold was a ridiculous prick that, no matter how much of an asshole Michael was, he’d never reach the heights of Harold. Michael may think he was the one pulling the strings, but in the end, all of the fault lay with Harold. If not for Michael trying to outdo Harold, they’d never have started that bullshit telephone game in the first place.  
2\. If Michael wasn’t careful, he was well on his way to an early grave if he kept drinking like a fish.  
3\. He was utterly and helplessly in love with Michael.

Talk about a complication of epic proportions.

If Michael caught on — spoiler: he never did. He was too busy hating himself for being a fucking faggot to realize there was an amazing man who didn’t know how to confess his feelings right there in front of him — he didn’t show it. But yet, Saturday after Saturday, Donald would show up at the apartment.

Donald would rest from the week. Michael would bitch.

And they would drink.

After three months of watching the empty vodka bottles pile up, Donald knew he had to put an end to the self-destructive behavior. He’d talked to the others, careful conversations he hoped would never get back to Michael. In the end, no one cared enough to join him on the crusade. He was the only one who could somehow separate the asshole from the man — or maybe he was the only one who knew that there was a human being beneath the prickly shell.

No, when it came to their intrepid social circle, Harold continued to goad Michael's alcohol usage, Emory and Larry were borderline alcoholics themselves — and after the disastrous party nine months ago, Donald knew the rest of the group could have cared less about the state of Michael's liver. Probably thought it served him right or some shit like that.

It'd been Donald who staged the solo intervention that, somehow, had been successful. Color him shocked. Then again, this sudden on-again-off- again - friends-with- benefits... thing may have had something to do with it.

Funny how good sex could be the best incentive imaginable.

Which led them to today. Michael’s birthday. Disasters of epic proportions bordering on the apocalyptic.

When the invite had come from Larry and Hank — jointly, like the public declarations of love followed by fucking in Michael’s bed had been the equivalent of a royal wedding — he should have burned the thing. Pretended like it’d gotten lost in the mail. Made certain that particular Saturday night was just the two of them, perhaps fucking against every surface in Michael’s apartment in the vain hope that Michael would let down one wall and they could find some other complicated label to apply to their “relationship”.

But, in the end, Michael had seen the invite and called to accept before Donald could stop him.

Yes, it was the usual crew.

No, he was not allowed to bring any fucking cracked crab.

Yes, Harold was going to be there.

No, neither Larry nor Hank expected some long-lost former college roommate to show up with a crisis of sexuality.

As for Cowboy, well, unsurprisingly no one had heard from him since.

A birthday party + Harold — well, there were the aforementioned disaster in ‘several languages’ — shame Donald missed the other forty-five thousand clues.


	2. The Arrival

“Look what the cat dragged in!”

“Another year older, but is he another year wiser?”

“There better not be any crab hiding in your coat!”

The voices of their friends overlapped in a veritable cacophony, everyone seemingly happy to see the pair. Perhaps that was why Donald initially let his guard down, foolishly assuming this would be a pleasant evening. Or, maybe, it was the way his gaze met Larry’s across the room and his stomach did that tell-tale _flip-flop_ it did whenever they saw each other. Months of keeping Michael as his main course — with more than a few side pieces here and there to fill his weekday nights — all of it didn’t erase that magnetic pull Larry had over him.

Of course it didn’t. Because why should things ever be simple in his life? Never.

Within moments, Hank was at Larry’s side and Donald felt the urge to roll his eyes. “For god’s sake, Hank, you don’t have to piss on him to mark your territory,” Donald said, giving into temptation and rolling his eyes skyward. “It’s not like we’re secretly fucking behind your back.”

Well, aside from those three times when they just so happened to find each other at the Ninth Circle in any case. Those didn’t count. Momentary lapses in... something. For _both_ of them.

“I’m not about to do anything of the sort,” Hank replied, even as he moved ever closer to Larry’s side.

Surprisingly, Larry didn’t push him away. Must have been a side effect of so-called wedded bliss. Whatever it was, it struck Donald in an odd way and his stomach flipped back the other way. Somersaults, this time, coupled with a back flip that certainly did _not_ stick the landing. What would it be like if Michael ever looked at him the way Hank and Larry looked at each other?

God he needed a drink.

Was it bad form for the guy who convinced a quasi-alcoholic to give up booze to summarily drown himself in martinis tonight? Hopefully not. He needed his best friends of vodka and vermouth by his side if he was going to manage this party. (Okay, so maybe he did sympathize a lot more with Michael’s own form of self-medication. Didn’t mean he regretted his intervention, however.)

Leaving the two lovebirds — Larry absolutely did not have to prove his loyalty to Hank by pinning the man against the counter — Donald padded into the living room... where Harold was already there and holding court.

“Funny,” Donald said, making a beeline toward the minibar set up in the corner, “I didn’t think you knew how to be on time for anything. I thought you only came in two forms: fashionably late and decidedly late.”

Harold turned his head, drawling in response, “Well, darling, it’s what happens when someone learns my ways and sends me an invite for an hour early.” He spread his hands wide, reaching for the glass of red wine to his left. “I wind up being on time. Consider it my gift to the guest of honor.”

The others raised their glasses to Michael and, for the briefest of moments, Donald could have sworn they all were _actually_ friends. Even Harold. That the intervening months of awkwardness and silence, all stemming from a stupid party game had never happened. That being alone had, somehow, mellowed everyone out to make them glad for each other’s company. Donald’s gaze darted around the room, seeing Emory and Bernard sitting a bit closer than usual, their fingertips just barely touching. Larry perched on the arm of Hank’s chair, fingers playing with his partner’s hair.

It all felt... normal. Nice. Unusual... but nice.

“Even if our guest of honor has, somehow, decided that water is the drink of the evening.”

The tips of Michael’s ears turned pink as heads turned to look at him. Apparently, all invited had forgotten about Donald’s attempt at gathering others for an intervention months ago. Before Donald could open his mouth to speak, Emory took the floor.

“Oh _Mary_ do I have a story for everyone! You’ll _never_ guess who I ran into on my way here.” He paused for dramatic effect, letting the suspense build like the showman he was. “Our good friend Cowboy!”

Bernard burst out laughing. “And is he waiting outside...?” He asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

Another long and pregnant pause, and even Donald got caught up in the anticipation, trying to watch both Emory and the door at the same time. “He said, and I quote — ‘you couldn’t pay me enough’... and he’s right! Your girl Emory is flat fucking _broke_!”

As the rest of the group burst into laughter, Donald found himself turning to watch Harold. As the man sipped slowly from his wine glass, ignoring the mirth and conversations swirling around him, his gaze focused solely on Michael. Harold grew quieter and quieter, a bad feeling began to take root in the pit of his stomach.


	3. The Game

Dinner, like the rest of the party, was an uneventful affair. Perhaps it was the fact that he was on his third martini — or that he was actually enjoying himself, either way... Donald had succeeded in letting his guard down. Whatever feeling had sprouted earlier in the evening completely evaporated within a few hours as Harold — wasn’t his usual prick-ish self. Donald began to think he’d just been paranoid earlier and everything was going to be fine.

Just a quiet evening with friends, nothing more.

Ha.

Retreating back to the living room amidst the sounds of joyful talking and glasses being refilled — Donald was pleased that Michael had yet to relapse. Honestly, if the man could make it through this evening without issue, he’d probably never touch a drop of alcohol again in his life. Proud of himself and his intervention — oh he’d _definitely_ find a way to provide a bit more incentive to stay sober when they got home — Donald added to his own alcohol tally with a fourth martini.

Turning back, lips raised to his glass — Donald met Harold’s gaze. Saw the glint in his eyes, the way his lips twisted into a cruel smirk.

_Oh fuck._

“You know, tonight’s been fun and all but —“ Donald began, trying to stop whatever was about to happen.

But that was the problem with an out-of-control train, barreling down the tracks. You didn’t realize there was a problem with the brakes until you applied pressure and, by that point, all you could do was hold on and pray that the carnage wasn’t too terrible.

“Let’s play a game,” Harold said, drawing the last word out longer than it had any right to be. “One... in honor of the birthday boy.  
Come, come Michael, don’t look so surprised. You didn’t think that you’d get out of this evening without a little bit of fun.”

Donald glanced around the room, trying to find someone else to back him up. To put a stop to this. No one spoke up. Emory had found something interesting in his drink, Bernard and Hank made quick excuses to ‘clean up before the pans are a nightmare to clean’ — and while Larry looked sympathetic, Donald knew he wouldn’t risk wedded bliss to defend Michael.

 _For me?_ Donald mouthed at Larry. _Please._

Larry gave the smallest, most imperceptible shakes of his head.

“So, Harold, what do you have in mind?” Michael asked, clearly rising to the bait. Goddamnit.

“Well, I think a bit of a drinking game is in order tonight! It’s been almost a year—“

“Nine months,” Larry interrupted.

“Fine, nine months if accuracy means so much to you,” Harold continued, undeterred. “But I feel a drinking game is in order, as a sort of post-mortem to everyone’s phone calls. At least this time the winner gets to down a nice big glass of something rather than amass a bunch of made up points that didn’t matter in the long run.” Harold took a sip of his wine, glancing about the room. “There’s just one problem, of course.”

Donald swallowed hard. “He doesn’t drink.”

“Nonsense. And he doesn’t need _you_ to speak for him.”

“I said he doesn’t drink.”

Harold looked over at Michael who, for once in his life, had drawn in on himself. He ran the tip of his finger around the rim of his half-empty water glass, staring at the reflection of the room in the liquid.

“And I say that he doesn’t need you to speak for him. You two aren’t a package deal, correct? It’s not like Hank and Larry over there, playing house after consummating their new-found fidelity in Michael’s bed. Well, _almost_ fidelity, that is. We all know Larry will never be able to keep his ass to himself.”

Silence hung in the air as Hank walked back into the room, drying his hands on a towel. Donald couldn’t help himself — he turned toward Larry and, as always, that spark between them was there.

“You said it was over, Larry,” Hank’s voice was clipped.

“It was. It is.” Larry rose from his chair, stepping in front of his boyfriend. “I told you it was.”

Hank stepped away from Larry, making a beeline for the mini-bar. “What’s the drink count for an unfaithful boyfriend after he confessed he loved you?”

Even Harold didn’t dare reply to that. Shrugging, Hank poured himself a healthy whiskey before settling down in an over-sized armchair. “Right, who’s next?”

Harold tutted under his breat. “Technically we didn’t begin, did we? Since not _everyone_ has a drink. I refuse to mete out points and drinks until everyone is playing. Water, Michael, is not a suitable substitute.” He waved his hand toward the bar. “Now go pick your poison. We’re all waiting.”

“I said he doesn’t fucking drink, you utter prick!” Donald downed the last of his martini, thanking some deity for the liquid courage that came from an unholy mixture of alcohol and olive juice. “I get that he was an asshole at your party. I get that he hurt you all, but that was then. If any of you had taken the time to get to know the sober Michael, maybe you’d learn something. But no, I’m apparently the only one who cares for him — the only one who loves him enough to help him get clean and realize that his behavior stemmed from something else. When you hate yourself, it’s hard to be kind to anyone else. Especially those who are comfortable in their queer skin.”

Once more, silence reigned and Donald realized the full extent of what he said. Of what he _confessed_. The hundreds of hours spent in bed together, talking through Michael's fears. Helping him become come to terms with his sexuality and see it as something to embrace, not hide away. 

Donald ran a hand through his hair, unable to make eye-contact with anyone.

Harold, meanwhile, tapped his chin. "Shame you just finished your drink, or I might have awarded you the win for confessing you loved him." He tilted his head, turning it to stare at Michael now. "Of course, you'd manage to take home the prize if you returned the sentiment. Or is that only if you go and fuck it out on Larry's bed." He smirked. "Probably isn't the first time Donald's been there I'm sure."

And that was it. 

Donald turned on his heel, glad he was standing to take the position of power — even if Harold lounged in his chair as if he were the king and holding court.

"You're a hateful prick of a man," Donald said. "And... I pity you. I pity that you're so caught in your own self-loathing that you have to bring everyone else down with you."

"And how is that so different than any of Michael's countless games?" He asked. "Drinking water at one party and staying quiet does not make a changed man."

"It's his fucking _birthday_ ," Donald roared. "It's his fucking birthday and you're making him out to be some monster."

"How is that any different from what he did on mine?" Harold asked.

"Or anyone else's?" Bernard chimed in. "Look at what he did to all of us. Time and time again."

Michael stood, setting his glass down. "And for that, well. I believe Donald covered everything and there isn't much else to say." Donald pinched the bridge of his nose. Because of _course_ something as simple as an apology wouldn't exist in Michael's vocabulary. He could whisper all the apologies in the dead of night when he assumed Donald was asleep, but god forbid he speak those same words during waking hours.

In front of others. Where they could hear him.

"Thank you all for the party it was..." Michael trailed off, then met Donald's eyes from across the room with an unreadable expression. "Enlightening. Can't wait to see what everyone has in store for Emory's birthday next month."

And with that, Michael turned on his heel and left the apartment, the latch snicking softly shut behind him.

Donald was caught — torn between using Harold's silk scarf to strangle him where he sat, trying to assure Hank he hadn't fucked Larry in the last three months... and making sure the man _he_ loved was okay. His fingers twitched, breathing hitching.

So, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he turned — surprised to see _Hank_ of all people extending the proverbial olive branch.

"Go after him," Hank said, squeezing Donald's shoulder. "Go."

"But—" Donald began.

"Go." Hank glanced over Donald's shoulder — and Donald followed his gaze to where Larry sat. Donald knew in that moment that both men cared for the photographer in their own way: Hank in that deep, all-consuming sort of love... and Donald's was a sort of thrill of first love.

But, in the end, what he needed was Michael. And Michael needed him.

Without another word, Donald disentangled himself from Hank's grasp and followed Michael out of the apartment.


	4. Denouement

The hallway outside Hank/Larry’s apartment was deafening, silent except for a lone _ping_ from the elevator around the corner and out of sight. Donald swore under his breath, taking off at a run to try and catch up to Michael before he disappeared out into the night. He didn’t trust Michael wouldn’t go to some seedy bar and find solace in the bottom of a glass — setting back six months of hard-fought victories.

Reaching the turn, Donald skidded around a corner, looking like some sort of cartoon character. He caught his balance just before he smashed into a wall, coming face-to-face with a bemused Michael.

“You all right there?” He asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning against the far wall. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Donald said, chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. He gestured back toward the apartment. “Harold and... well, everything.”

“What is there to be upset about?” He asked. Michael tilted his head to the side, drawing his lips into a thin line. “Did you think _I_ was upset?”  
Donald stared at Michael as if he’d grown a second head. Silence bounced between them, broken only by someone getting off the elevator—staring confusedly at the two men—before letting themselves into their apartment.

“Well... yes!” Donald finally said when it seemed like Michael wasn’t going to supply any further dialogue. “Harold goading you into drinking. Everything that the others were saying about you.” Another pause. “What... I said.”

Michael chuckled and pushed off from the wall. He crossed over to Donald, putting a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“You forget, darling, that I’ve known Harold for longer than _any_ of you. If he didn’t try to pull some sort of shit during my birthday party — or any party for that matter — I would think he’s dying of some terrible disease. It’s who he is and I don’t really give a damn about what he thinks of me, you, anyone else in that apartment... not to mention my lack of drinking.”

Donald stared at him. “So you’re not going off to drink away...” he trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “Which also means, my speech...”

Michael smiled, then patted Donald’s cheek. “Was completely unnecessary. Nice, of course, but unnecessary. I really wish you and Larry would stop giving Hank an aneurism, however. Hasn’t the man been through enough?”

It was Donald’s turn to look sheepish. “It isn’t often.” He glanced back down the other hallway. “And hasn’t been for a while. Not... since...”

Michael tilted his head to the other side letting Donald stare into those brilliant blue eyes he’d fallen in love with months and months ago. Donald finally pulled away from Michael, trying to get to the elevator. He needed out of here and fast. Before he had to face the proverbial music and his declaration of love made in front of all their “friends”.

“Not since you realized you were in love with me?” Michael supplied, stopping Donald in his tracks.

“We don’t need to talk about that.” Donald hit the _floor down_ button, tapping his foot and praying that the doors would open right _now_ and save him from having to have this conversation.

For one, the liquid courage from his martinis had long-since worn off, leaving just Donald in its place. For the other... talking about emotional things were never his forte — especially when they were his own feelings. He’d spent his entire life running away from people. First his parents who disowned him for being gay. Then every single man he’d ever had a connection to, afraid they would catch feelings for _him_. Donald pressed the button over and over, as if the speed of his finger would summon the elevator even faster.

No such luck. Whatsoever.

Fuck.

“Donald.”

He ignored the other man in favor of pounding on the elevator button. Apparently the elevator forgot this floor existed and kept passing by. Donald contemplated making a beeline for the stairs, but that would mean passing by Michael. So — summoning the fucking elevator it was.

“ _Donald._ ”

He kicked the metal door in frustration, then spun around to face Michael. “ _What._ ”

“I love you too.”

At last the elevator doors opened like some sort of belated divine intervention. Donald stared at Michael, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. For the first time in his life he’d been rendered speechless.

The elevator pinged again, the doors starting to slide closed.

Michael nodded at the elevator. “Your ride is leaving.”

“Fuck the ride,” he said, closing the distance between himself and Michael in two strides.

He pinned the other man to the wall and Michael slid his arms around Donald’s neck in one smooth motion. He crushed his lips against Michael’s before he could change his mind, before he could think better about such a public display of affection where anyone could see them. Before his brain actually kicked in. Before Michael could protest.

Before...

Before he realized that Michael had parted his lips and kissed him back. 

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like this, breaking the kiss every so often when they needed oxygen. At last, lips bruised and panting — foreheads resting against each other. Donald couldn’t think of a single thing to say (second time in such a short period of time at that) so he opted for quiet, listening to their co-mingled breathing.

And when the elevator pinged behind them, Donald expected Michael to jump back.

But he didn’t move.

Not even when a woman tutted under her breath, muttering something about those gays going to hell and it was a good thing her children didn’t see such a perverse display.

Cheeks pink, Donald gave Michael a nudge. “I think that’s our cue.”

Michael, surprising the hell out of Donald, leaned in for one last kiss. “Does this mean you’re going to be around more than just every Saturday?”

Donald slid his hand into Michael’s, tugging him toward the elevator. He shoved his arm between the doors just as they slammed shut, forcing them open once more. Donald thumbed the button for the lobby, watching the doors close and leaving the spot of their first kiss behind.

Surprise of surprises — Michael didn’t let go of his hand. 

“When did you know?” Donald found himself asking as the elevator made it’s slow descent to the lobby.

“Honestly or should I tell you what I know you want to hear?”

“Honestly,” Donald said. “I want to know when you realized.”

Michael pressed a kiss to his cheek, then stepped aside — dropping their intertwined hands as they arrived at the lobby. Donald couldn’t blame him. He’d have done the same, truthfully. There were some things that were just... safer.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Donald said as he fell into step beside Michael. “When did you know?”

They wove through the crowded lobby, hands brushing every so often. They didn’t speak again until they were deposited back onto the bustling New York City streets. Donald grew more and more frustrated the longer they walked without Michael giving him any sort of satisfaction.

“ _Well_?” Donald asked, exasperated. 

Michael paused at the top of the subway stairs. “When you asked me to stop drinking. You cared about my health and well-being, it wasn’t too much of a leap to assume you... felt that way.”

Donald’s ears turned pink, blushing for the first time in his life. Apparently this even was nothing but a bunch of firsts for him. Perhaps for them both. 

“Coming?” Michael asked, pulling Donald from his thoughts. “I know it isn’t Saturday but...”

He nodded. The rest of the subway ride back to the apartment was in silence. Neither had much to say — at least nothing that could be said in public without running the risk of being outed. And by the time they reached the apartment, whatever words might have been needed had evaporated and they spoke only with their bodies.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Donald had lost track of how many rounds they’d gone, each time winding up in a puddle of sheets and sweat — Donald dozed in and out of sleep with Michael firmly ensconced in his arms.

For a night that began in disaster, it certainly didn’t end that way.

Donald glanced down at the sleeping Michael, brushing a bit of hair away from his temple before he placed the lightest of kisses there.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. I admit, some of my blocking for references more come from the stage version (I think it will always live in my head rent-free.) I know I wound up combining a couple of your prompts, but I loved the way the Harold goading Michael into drinking after he sobered up paired so well with Donald realizing he was in love with Michael. It’s my first time writing from Donald’s POV so I hope I did him justice!
> 
> And if you recognize a few lines from one of Andrew Rannells’ other credits. I will neither confirm nor deny where they came from. Ahem.
> 
> Thank you so much for letting me play in the sandbox of one of my favorite fandoms and I hope this is a wonderful Yuletide for you! I truly, truly hope you love this!


End file.
